


of bassists and blondes

by apellai



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Reincarnation, agender jehan, background bahorel/feuilly - Freeform, band au, mentions of homophobia/transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 13:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14450724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apellai/pseuds/apellai
Summary: Grantaire's a bassist, and Enjolras is an enigma.





	of bassists and blondes

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as the reincarnation band AU that nobody asked for. It's rushed but I had to get the idea out before I lost it.

Grantaire likes being the bassist.

Being the bassist means you get your fucking  _ privacy. _

Bahorel, Bossuet and Joly get hounded by groupies, even when ‘Chetta has threatened them bodily harm. There’s always someone waiting to get their attention. Occasionally, there’s someone after Grantaire, sure, but it’s more than a little rare - his…  _ unconventional _ looks combined with his role in the band have made him sort of a loner and more than sort of a hermit. ABC isn’t that popular a band, so the people who wait backstage are actually  _ interested _ in them. Grantaire isn’t interesting.

Enter Les Amis.

Enter Enjolras.

They started playing gigs with ABC only on occasion - ABC classified as pop-punk, while Les Amis were a thrashy punk band until their manager suggested they clean up their vocals a little so at least fans could sing along. They did that. Enjolras was, apparently, classically trained in singing.

The first show they did together, they didn’t rehearse beforehand. Not with all the bands together. The venue didn’t have  _ time _ for that, are you kidding? So when Grantaire met Les Amis for the first time, it was backstage, right before they went on.

Even in dim backstage lighting in a shitty room filled with smoke, Enjolras looked like something out of a Greek god’s wet dream. He had long, curly blonde hair and thick eyebrows and freckles and these  _ soulful  _ blue eyes, his cheeks were rosy and he was vaguely muscular, arms adorned with wristbands. Grantaire would think he’d be a gentle schoolboy, if it weren’t for his perpetual angry expression and the ACAB shirt he was wearing. And the fact he looked like sex incarnate.

He remembers nudging Bahorel desperately, asking, “Who the fuck is that and who invited him?”

Bahorel laughed. “He’s the lead singer of our opener, dude,” then gave Grantaire a look, “You interested? You don’t even  _ like _ blondes.”

Enjolras then noticed them staring, and gave a little wave with a flash of a smile before going back to his conversation with his manager - Combeferre, if he recalls correctly.

“I usually don’t.”

The show went fantastically.

As they play more local shows, the bands just… fall together. They’re a group act, at this point. 

Les Amis’ drummer is Grantaire’s favorite, probably. Jehan is a sweetheart - they wear flowers in their locs, wire-frame glasses, oversized sweaters, and floral prints - you’d never guess they’re the drummer for a political punk band. He starts hanging out with Jehan often, mostly backstage, sometimes at afterparties when Bahorel is concerned with the bassist from Les Amis and Joly and Bossuet are concerned with each other and Musichetta.

Jehan tells him the backstories of all their bandmates - Enjolras grew up in a rich home, got kicked out at 16 when he came out. He was homeless until Courfeyrac(who is now the guitarist) found out, and forced him to take the extra room in his home. Enjolras knew Combeferre from elementary school - best friends since birth, almost. After high school, Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre moved in with each other to get through school, and formed the band near the end of senior year. Les Amis’ bassist, Feuilly, was in and out of foster homes for most of his life, and met Enjolras at one of the extracurriculars at their high school. He did it to avoid having to go back to a foster home, as Jehan said, and didn’t have a home until he was twenty-one, when he got had four jobs and could finally afford rent. Jehan says they met the others through philosophy classes in college - starting with Courfeyrac, who virtually forced them into his friend group, not that they were complaining, and the guys accepted them gracefully.

“I was so scared,” Jehan tells Grantaire. “Like, college kinda sucked for a lot of reasons, but most of it was how people treated my gender. Courf was cool about it right off the bat, but meeting new people is always frightening when you have weird gender shit. But they didn’t mind. I’ve never met a cooler group of people.”

Grantaire glances over to where the others are sitting, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Feuilly sitting like normal on a backstage couch after a show, with Courfeyrac lying stretched across them - physical affection comes naturally to them, it seems. No wonder they get along so well with Bahorel. Jehan is right. They’re interesting and accepting and loving, no matter how fiery Enjolras’s passion can be, they’re all full of love - every action the group performs is an act of love.

Again, Enjolras and Grantaire catch each other’s eyes, and Enjolras winks at him before returning to his conversation. Grantaire feels his cheeks heat up. Jehan laughs to themself. “You guys are subtle.” The statement is dripping in sarcasm.

 

During a show, once, Enjolras glances backstage and sees Grantaire watching, and winks at him. The rest of his band is focused on other things. Enjolras winked at  _ him. _

 

After a particularly fun show, the bands are backstage winding down - Bahorel and Feuilly have snuck off to God knows where, Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are playing cards on the table in the green room with Courfeyrac - Courfeyrac is piled into Combeferre’s lap as he reads a sci-fi book. There’s a new techie, Marius, squashed onto the sofa with the two. Grantaire is on the floor in a corner, lighting a bowl, when someone sits next to him. Enjolras’s hair is down for once, nearly covering his face.

“You gonna let me hit that or what?”

Grantaire stares at him as he takes the pipe from his fingers. “... I thought you didn’t smoke.”

Enjolras grins, and through held breath, says, “I never said anything about pot,” and he hands Grantaire his joint again.

_ Indirect kiss, _ Grantaire’s mind chants, but he stifles it, because this isn’t fucking middle school, you jackass. He takes a hit and leans against the concrete wall behind him.

“You’ve gotten close with Prouvaire,” Enjolras says.

“They’re cool.”

“Yeah,” He leans back against the wall next to Grantaire. He’s maybe too close. “Anything there?”

“What? Oh, like-” Grantaire looks over at Enjolras. He’s smirking in a way that Grantaire can’t really decipher. “No, not at all. Uh, Jehan’s not my type, really,” he says. That’s diplomatic enough. He thinks. It’s not untrue.

“What is your type?”

“Men.”

“Oh.” Enjolras starts to laugh to himself. “Shit, me too.” He takes the pipe away from Grantaire again. “I suppose you already knew that, huh.”

Grantaire grins. “Yeah, kind of.”

The group at the table bursts into commotion when someone makes a good move, or something. They’re not really paying attention.

Enjolras nudges Grantaire with his arm. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

Grantaire feels his stomach flip as he starts, “What, like to y-”

“No, to the roof, or something. Like outside. It’s stuffy in here.”

 

And now, Enjolras is laying on the roof, Grantaire leant over the edge, smoking a cigarette.

Enjolras lies stretched out, his blond curls fanned out around his head like a halo. If it were any shorter, Grantaire thinks, it’d stick straight up like a poodle. The idea is kind of cute, to be honest.

His eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted, breathing in chilly February air. He looks serene, for once.

Grantaire jumps when Enjolras breaks the silence. “You gonna talk to me or are you just gonna stare at me all night?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but Enjolras beats him to it. “Come here.” Grantaire obeys. “Sit down, man, relax, I won’t bite.”

As he sits, Grantaire half expects and half hopes for the  _ “Unless you want me to.” _ He knows it won’t come - Enjolras isn’t  _ crude. _

He sits next to Enjolras, facing him, his hips only a couple inches away from Grantaire’s own. If Enjolras put his hand at his side, instead of where it lies next to his head, he’d be touching Grantaire.

They’re quiet for a while as Grantaire smokes.

When the cigarette is put out, he feels a hand on his knee.

“You’re warm.” Enjolras’s voice is soft and delicate.

On an impulse, Grantaire grabs Enjolras’s hand, wrapping both of his own around it. He’s freezing. Enjolras smiles, but never opens his eyes.

With a sigh, he says, “I feel like I’ve known you a hundred years.” The statement sounds like a breath, but at the same time, it feels like it took all of Enjolras’s courage to say it.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He lays down next to Enjolras and stares up at the stars.

“You don’t talk much, huh?”

Grantaire smiles. “I do, but I don’t want to fuck this up.” Enjolras has kept their hands together between them. His skin is soft.

“How would you fuck it up?”

“I’m an idiot.”

“I don’t think you are.”

Silence, again. Enjolras’s soft breathing. Grantaire can hear an occasional car pass below them, but it’s all muted and muddy, when Enjolras is right next to him, bright as day, serene like spring.

Grantaire sighs, this time. “What makes you feel like you’ve known me?”

Slender fingers tighten around Grantaire’s hand. “I don’t know. When we met, you felt familiar. I saw you and recognized you. I felt comfortable, like, immediately, and that’s only ever happened with ‘Ferre.”

Grantaire’s heart is racing, he’s not sure why, because he doesn’t think he’s in love - not yet, at least.

“I think,” Enjolras starts, and makes a pained expression. “I feel like I’ve dreamt about you.”

“... What?”

“I’m not making a joke, either, I’ve literally dreamt about you.” He clears his throat. “I’ve been having nightmares since I was a kid, they’re always about, like, death. I met Combeferre when i was, like, five, and I started having having nightmares about him. About watching him die. As soon as I’d make a friend, they’d all be added to my nightmare, I’d watch them die. You were the only one who showed up before I met you. I met your band before I met you. They were all there too. There’s so much blood, and we’re all speaking French, and I can hear women crying, and bottles breaking, and then - silence. I’m standing in a shop or something, you come in, and ask to die beside me. Then I wake up. And I’m always crying when I wake up.”

Now Enjolras looks like he’s holding back tears.

“I really just… unloaded all that shit on you, huh?” He laughs, bitter. “I wanted to just talk to you, ‘cause you seem fun, even if you’re kind of an asshole, but I remembered that and I couldn’t help it. I feel like I’ve known you forever. I feel like we’re connected, somehow, and I can’t figure it out.”

Grantaire brings Enjolras’s hand up and kisses it. “We can be, if you want to.”

Finally, Enjolras opens his eyes. “We  _ are.” _ He flips over so he’s on top of Grantaire, hair creating a curtain around their faces. “I know it.”

This close, Grantaire can count each of Enjolras’s eyelashes. Each of his freckles. He smells like citrus and sweat and pot, and it shouldn’t be sexy, but  _ God, _ it is. “You’re high.”

“I had  _ two hits.” _

“You usually have more?” He’s smiling, and so is Enjolras.

“My resting heart rate is, like, a panic attack. I need pot to function.”

“You say ‘like’ a lot,” Grantaire mumbles. “It’s cute.” And his eyes dart down to red, red lips, hoping Enjolras takes the hint.

He does.

They kiss like they’ve known each other a hundred years.


End file.
